


(You Are) The Sky in Technicolor

by fadeoutin (orphan_account)



Category: Stardust - Gaiman
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-21
Updated: 2009-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-04 19:52:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/33495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/fadeoutin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After finding a fallen falling star, running away from a witch-queen who wanted to cut aforementioned star's heart out, getting turned into a doormouse, and gladly letting the love of his former life marry another, Tristran just wants to go wherever adventure will take him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(You Are) The Sky in Technicolor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Platinum](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Platinum).



It’s just been weeks since you found your mother, who had _not_ been at all what you’d expected, had you the foresight to expect; weeks and a day since you had inadvertently and yet utterly fallen in love with a star—and _this_ you had not expected in the least, which was what made things all the more wonderful. Yvaine had not seemed too keen on adventure early on, especially when the horse you had bartered for suddenly decided he would rather head off on his own and join a singing troupe, leaving you both on foot, with an expensive, burnt-leather saddle you have absolutely no use for. But she is smiling now, her slight limp barely noticeable, laughing at the bright-colored birds twittering and dancing about that, at least in your eyes, are all jostling for her attention.

 

You do not blame them—no, not at all, for she is beautiful, glittering in the sunshine as she is, and you are nothing but a ninny, a dunderhead, and a clodpoll. You chuckle, mainly to yourself, but Yvaine hears you and turns her smile towards you, grasps your scarred left hand in her own delicate one, and you feel your heart swell.

 

-

 

All things considered, it’s rather appropriate that you happen upon the _Perdita_ just a few days into your travel. You’ve stopped at a small groundside port that smells faintly of burnt wood and oiled metal, searching for an inn to spend the night, when Yvaine spots her anchored fast, floating waist-high above the ground.

 

The crew is at the inn, toasting tankards of ale. Meggot notices you first, blinks hummingbird-fast once, twice, and then smiles brightly. “Cap’n, sir! It’s young Tristran.” And then she pauses, mouth slightly parted, eyes wide as if she has said something wrong, something terribly wrong.

 

You don’t understand the look on her face, and the confusion must show for the captain shushes her lightly, turns his great big grin at you and calls out, “Come join us, lad! And lady, of course. There’s plenty of room.”

 

Yvaine returns his smile, though hers is gentle, faint and gleaming like a faraway star in the night sky. Captain Alberic takes her hand as she sits, cradling porcelain and moonbeams in his palm. To you, he shifts to make room, claps you hard on the back, and you wouldn’t have him welcome you any other way.

 

“You know how it is, Tristran. We heard, saw the elephants a-trampling through the forests from the sky.” _Mother_, you think first, and then _oh, they know_. And you are not at all sure how you feel about that.

 

The server draws near, stops by the table, and the captain falls silent. Two wooden mugs touch the table, one thick and handled, the other hewn smooth to the touch. The captain hands the boy some coin, and casually takes a drink from his tankard as he pushes the fresh pint towards you. You sip silently, watch from the corner of your eye as the young server boy flushes red when Yvaine touches his cheek in thanks. Your drink is ale, warm in your mouth, heavy in your stomach; hers is cider, and though she does not need it, her lips quirk upwards when she takes a taste, hinting that it is much to her liking.

 

Perhaps you will take some in your waterskins, you think. She would like that.

 

Minutes, hours later, you find yourself maybe a bit unsteady, and blurt out to Captain Alberic that maybe, if it would not be too much trouble, you would like to sail on _Perdita_ again. His gaze is drunkenly knowing, his grin brilliant white as he nods, wrapping a strong arm around your shoulders and squeezing tight. He drawls, _be glad to have you onboard_, but in a rare moment of lucidity, you notice that his eyes are dark and soft, much like your father’s. With the ale dizzying your senses, you do not comprehend what that means, and the thought is lost to the night. But it was there, and for one moment you knew.

 

The next day finds you waking in a vaguely-familiar cabin, clouds and sky outside the window. There are shirts hanging to dry, holes cut into the backs—Oddness and his wings, you realize with a grin. It’s quite strange that you’ve never seen him fly before, with those great big wings folded up behind him, curled into themselves. They twitch sometimes, feathers fluffing slightly, and you’re sure he does not know you can tell his feelings, just by watching his wings.

 

When you step out onto the deck, after a quick (late) breakfast, he is there, braiding a long length of rope. He moves a bit, unconsciously leaving a place for you to sit, and it’s like you never left. That is how you spend the rest of your morning, braiding rope beside the first mate. He does not say a word; he does not need to. A few hours together again and crew treats you like one of their own, at least until they remember who you are actually supposed to be.

 

You insist, often and for the entirety of the next few days, that they simply call you Tristran and nothing else more, and though they’ve been making progress since, Meggot would still slip every now and then and call you ‘milord’, much to your chagrin (and, unsurprisingly, Yvaine’s glee). You’re not quite sure what the big deal is, you being Lord of Stormhold, though _last heir_ does seem very important-sounding. But then, it’s not like you’re actually ruling (_lording_) over the place yet—not that you will be anytime soon.

 

Word travels fast, in the right circles, and by the time _Perdita_ docks at the (_floating!_) port of Skyshroud, you’re getting these _looks_ from particular people who scurry around and about like they’re minding their own business.

 

Which they’re not, you think, because their subtle needs quite a bit of work.

 

You’re not sure how you feel about other people knowing, but they leave you well enough alone (even if Yvaine won’t).

 

Thankfully, the captain still treats you the same, mentioning one night after supper, with a grin and a tilt of his pipe, that “You’re not Lord of Stormhold _yet_, m’boy, and I reckon you’re not too keen about it still.”

 

On the fifteenth day of the journey, you wake to a lake-blue sky. The thick, black clouds are behind you, leaving their growling lingering in your ears, and onwards all you can see is endless blue. You’ve always loved the sky; loved watching the clouds drift by during lazy afternoons in the village when you were young; loved picking out the stars as they peek out one by one after dusk. On the _Perdita_ is as close as you can come to flying.

 

You wonder how it will be like, when (if) you arrive at Stormhold. At the very least, you are comforted by the fact that mother did mention the city stands on one of the highest mountains.

 

Yvaine touches your shoulder, slips her arm around your waist as you stand at the tip of _Perdita_. Her unbound hair flutters around behind her, a flag of silk spun into gold.

 

“It is time, isn’t it?” she asks softly, and you nod.

 

“Any way the wind blows, we said,” you reply. “And it feels like it’s time.” She makes a small sound, a hum of agreement, and you are both silent for a few moments before you add, quite unnecessarily, “It’s the sky, I think. Or the clouds, or,” and you squint, “or the _lack_ of clouds. I don’t know.”

 

She laughs, touches her lips to your cheek and whispers, teasing, “And here I thought you’d grown so sagelike.” But when you turn to gather her into your arms, her eyes are bright and they say _I’m glad you’re here._

 

That afternoon, you take your leave from the captain. He is in his cabin, puffing away contentedly, but when you say you and Yvaine will move on at the next port, he stops and sets down his pipe.

 

“Where are you headed, then?”

 

His gaze is thoughtful, perhaps with a touch of regret, and you shrug. “Wherever the wind takes us, I would think. Honestly, I’m not at all that sure.”

 

The captain smiles, claps a hand on your shoulder. “If you ask me, there isn’t a better place to go, m’boy.”

 

-

 

You do not reach the next port.

 

Eastward, the skies grow smoke-gray and the air smells like the clouds are burning. The captain tells you this means a massive storm is on the rise, and instead you are dropped off at the edge of a windswept, dusty-dry plain, laden with enough provisions to last you a week. There are no tearful farewells—only promises to return, and an unexpected hug from Oddness.

 

His feathers, you know now, feel like downy cloud. They are the softest things you have ever felt, besides Yvaine, and the contrast of such softness on a bear of a man as he is infinitely endearing.

 

There is a great mountain range where the plain ends—a sheer wall of red rock miles high and equally long. Yvaine takes one look at it and sighs, a touch exasperated and entirely too indulgent. “I suppose this means we will be climbing for a good part of the next few days.”

 

And you grin, sheepish. There is a small smile on her face, though, and you think perhaps the whole idea of adventure is slowly appealing to her.

 

You do spend the next few days climbing, but it is not as difficult as you thought it would be. The red rock is soft and brittle when cut, quite unlike the hard mountain rock you remember from the goblin caves. It also helps that Yvaine no longer wears a dress, having deemed it completely impractical for any sort of fantastical adventuring you had planned out for her (if adventuring could be _planned_, you’d replied quietly, and she ignored you). You do miss the dress, in a way, but the leather vest over a thick cotton shirt match _very_ well with the fawn-colored leggings you’d bartered for in Skyshroud, so no, you are not complaining at all.

 

Two days later, countless feet up the mountains, you meet an eagle, and _he_ seems to have mastered well the art of minding his own business. He hasn’t noticed you both, you believe, but you hold out a hand for Yvaine nonetheless. A belated sense of chivalry on your part, which Yvaine will most undoubtedly consider juvenile and completely stupid.

 

This, perhaps, is the biggest reason why you love her so dearly.

 

“Hello, good sir,” you greet him cheerfully. “If I may ask, is there is a way through to the other side?”

 

The eagle stares at you, its liquid eyes curious, and replies in a surprising baritone, “Why yes. It’s a bit of a ways up, still. A hole in the cliff, but it’s rather easy to miss. I could show you where it is, if you’d like.”

 

You smile, delighted, and beside you Yvaine sighs in exaggerated relief. “We would much appreciate the assistance.”

 

A bit of a ways up to him translates roughly to three full days of hiking, by your estimate, as you cling lightly to the feathers on his back. Yvaine’s hands are wrapped around your waist, tracing irregular shapes on the rough leather of your jerkin, while she settles her chin in that soft hollow where your shoulder meets neck. It isn’t a bad way to travel at all.

 

When he flutters his wings, slowly settling to a stop on a large, flat plate near the mountain peaks, you spring off his back with a nimbleness that surprises you, and reach out your hand to help Yvaine down. It seems as if adventure is bringing out certain things you never knew you possessed. Yvaine touches your cheek knowingly, and you duck your head down, sheepish.

 

“He’s quite impressive,” you remark when the eagle finally touches down, smoothly folding his immense wings.

 

“Indeed,” Yvaine agrees. “A magnificent creature.” And the eagle ducks its great head down, preens when Yvaine lifts up a pale hand to touch his feathers.

 

You do not know much about the eagles of the High Crags. You are quite sure, though, that they do not blush, even when they are kissed by pretty ladies (who are also, in fact, stars).

 

But then, maybe you are wrong.

 

-

 

The way to the other side takes you six days, through the winding labyrinth depths of the mountains that shine silver-white in the morning. It is no surprise to you that, in some deep instinctive part of your core, you know the way through the caves. For once, Yvaine does not question you.

 

There is no need for fire when the light filters through the glassy rock of the peaks. When evening descends, however, the stone in the deepest caverns turn to darkened purple and pinks. After setting up camp on the first night, you find it very difficult not to stare at Yvaine, quietly resting in a smooth hollow of crystal rock, glimmering gently in the faint firelight.

 

-

 

When you step out of the yawning cave mouth, all you can see is lush, green forest mirrored by the glassy sky. It is a great upturned bowl of land, leafy treetops curving at the edge of the horizon. You take a deep breath, inhaling the scent of moist life; the cool air curling playfully around your senses, the taste on your tongue like fresh morning dew laced with spice.

 

Her hand in yours, Yvaine leads the way until the rough, grainy red rock crumbles into thick loam, and the fine blades of grass tickle your legs through your trousers.

 

There is no path trampled through the grass, no signs to point the way, so you simply head forward. Around you, the forest hums with life. Squirrels chatter from the upper branches, scampering and leaping and suddenly disappearing as if playing hide and seek. You keep your thoughts to yourself, slowing your stride when Yvaine stop to pet a few curious fawns, grinning when she coos at the prettily-colored butterflies hovering around her. They’re all rather taken by her—by the way she shines, you believe—and you do not mind at all.

 

When you step into a clearing, after a few hours of walking, you stop, mouth hanging open.

 

To say that it is large would not be incorrect, as it _is_ of significant size, but the harbor-tree you remember from your first time on _Perdita_ seems like just a sapling compared to this one. Its branches stretch far beyond the tips of the other forest trees, sweeping overhead like a great, leafy umbrella, and disappear into the clouds. There are notches on the trunk, cut into the wood by a precise hand—a ladder, leading up to a hole in the tree.

 

“Well?” Yvaine’s tone is a touch impatient, altogether amused, but she makes no move to continue onwards.

 

You stare at the acorns hanging from the lowest branches, and then move up along the thick, gnarled trunk until you cannot see where the branches end.

 

“It’s… big,” you say, wide-eyed and giddy. You ignore the _look_ Yvaine sends your way, the look that says _are you fucking serious?_ in a way that is somehow endearing to you. The tree’s shadow seems to float over your head, rustling the leaves of your thoughts and dislodging a memory that is perhaps as faint and distant as it feels. You remember crumbling bark underneath your fingertips, the bright, yellow sun at midday in your face as you clambered up the climbing tree, craning your neck to peer beyond the long, winding Wall by the border of the village.

 

Yvaine calls your name.

 

You blink, and the memory is gone.

 

-

 

You spent the rest of the day climbing the tree, up the various spiral staircases in its hollow trunk, the ladders hewn into the walls, and the rope-bridges joining its lower branches. The acorns soon become shiny-red apples, and you politely ask a passing squirrel if he can fetch you one. For your lady, you say, and he tilts his head to look beyond you, chestnut-brown eyes brightening when he spots her, and quickly nods his little head.

 

Yvaine smiles a bit too widely when you hand her your gift, and fondly ruffles your hair in thanks.

 

Higher up, and the apples are no longer apples. They are oranges this time, large and ripe, and the woodpeckers gladly help you gather a few.

 

The sky is dark now, pinpricks of light slowly emerging, and you breathe in the scent of the night air, of the humming forest, of Yvaine snuggled up close. You are stuffed with delicious fruit, standing on the topmost branch of Home-Tree with a wool blanket around your shoulders—a gift from the sparrows where the oranges turned to cherries, after you helped fix a broken loom. Soon, the stars seem so close, it’s almost like you could reach out your hand and touch them.

 

“My sisters,” Yvaine whispers, and you can sense the longing, the wistfulness in her voice. Your palms are rough on your good hand, fingers thick and callused, but Yvaine merely sighs when you touch her waist—a soft, soft sound that makes your heart seize in his chest, makes the world constrict to here and now and her body fitted smoothly against your own.

 

You wish, for one moment, that some other star had fallen. You would never have met her this way, but at least she would still be with her sisters, shining beautifully in the night sky and watching the mortals live their lives, blissfully ignorant of the secrets the sky holds. But then she turns around in your arms, her eyes shining with an emotion you just cannot place, and threads her fingers into your hair and pulls your head down; kisses you, full on the lips; steals your breath and your heart all over again.

 

If this is what gazing out of the Stormhold towers will be like, then you think it will not be so bad.

 

As long as it’s this close to the sky.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi. Originally-assigned writer, here. This being my first Yuletide, I didn't know what to expect at all. My fandoms are obscurer than obscure, so offering to write Gaiman's stuff was spur-of-the-moment for me, because I didn't think I'd actually get assigned to write fic on his works.
> 
> Ha. Ha ha ha. Yeah right.
> 
> So my dear requester, I hope you enjoyed your gift. I had an awesome time writing it, typing out over a thousand words in one night, right after my exams finished. You asked for adventure and exploration. I hope I wrote enough of that in between my ramblings. It was, in a way, an exercise in style for me, as I've never written second-person pov before.
> 
> Also, the emergence of Tristran/Yvaine surprised me a bit, because as a femslasher, het isn't really my strong spot. But it's there, in all its dorky awkwardness.
> 
> Merry Christmas, then! I hope you (all) have a fantastic holiday.


End file.
